


Heart's on Fire (It's Friday Night)

by TheWholesomePerv



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: (cue to you starting to cry like I do every time Pippa goes "can I tell you what I'm proudest of?"), Alex has implied PTSD, Alexander Hamilton Being Alexander Hamilton, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Office, And some (minor) Angst, Angelica works in HR and everyone is afraid of her, Anxiety, Bisexual Alexander Hamilton, Bisexual Thomas Jefferson, Eliza is an actual cinnamon roll, Feelings Realization, Fuck Buddies to Lovers, God I love those two, Hilarious office shenanigans, Human Disaster Alexander Hamilton, Insecurity, Jamilton - Freeform, Listen I am a bitch for Hamilton Office AUs, M/M, Martha Jefferson is mentioned, Men at baffling odds with their emotions, Men trying to hide their blossoming feelings, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mom Friend Eliza Schuyler, No Beta We Die Like Philip, Not Canon Compliant, Past Alexander Hamilton/Elizabeth "Eliza" Schuyler, Scars, She also works at an orphanage, Smut, TJeffs and his Mac and Cheese, TJeffs feeds Hammie because Hammie is really bad at taking care of himself, TJeffs is hot for the Ham and his lil anxious heart can't handle it, Thomas Jefferson is not an asshole for once, Thomas has implied social anxiety, Thomas is a real softie when it comes to Alex, Thunderstorms, We know Alex loves those, Widowed Thomas Jefferson, and fluff, i'm not even sorry, idiots in love (eventually), mentions of the hurricane, mild mentions of grief, past trauma, they are bad at feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-03
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-14 23:35:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29179590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWholesomePerv/pseuds/TheWholesomePerv
Summary: If you ask Thomas Jefferson, Alexander Hamilton is a loudmouthed, petty, and annoying gremlin fueled by caffeine and the sound of his own voice.If you ask Alexander Hamilton, Thomas Jefferson is a pompous, entitled, and lazy prick who is wrong about every single thing he says.With a tension as palpable as this one, it was only a matter of time before they’d end up murdering each other or fucking. Falling in love hadn’t been included in that list.And yet, here they were.Here they fucking were.Murder might have been the easier option.Or:Alex and Thomas hook up every Friday, catch feelings along the way, and are incredibly stubborn about it.
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton/Thomas Jefferson
Comments: 22
Kudos: 77





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> GUESS WHO'S BACK?!
> 
> Hi, hello, friends. I have returned. With a Jamilton fanfiction of massive proportions. This ship lives in my head rent-free.
> 
> Enjoy.

It had started like everything between them seems to start: With a petty argument.

Later, much later, in fact, Thomas Jefferson wouldn’t be able to recollect how excatly they ended up here. ‘Here’ being the not friends with benefits situation he has going on with Alexander Hamilton.

Hamilton. Of all people.

Notorious loudmouth. Self-absorbed jerk. Always wants to get the last word in. Never. Shuts. Up. Obnoxiously cute. Has a really nice butt in these midnight blue slacks (not that Thomas is checking him out, absolutely not).

Hamilton, the very same.

It’s fair to say that this might be one of the poorer life choices Thomas has made in recent years.

But he’d be damned if he didn’t enjoy every last minute of it.

Maybe a little too much.

Definitely too much for his sanity.

You see, contrary to popular belief, Thomas Jefferson is not a jerk and Thomas Jefferson is also a lot more complicated than one would come to think after meeting him for the first time (though he very much prefers if you don’t notice it). First and foremost, though, Thomas Jefferson is not one for casual flings. So, him starting a very casual (and quiet frankly, kind of insane in hindsight) affair with none other than the man he argues with every single meeting he had been part of for the past three years, is highly untypical behavior.

One might even call it… 

Dumb.

And if there was one thing Thomas Jefferson is not, it’s dumb.

Except for when it comes to Alexander Hamilton, apparently.

Here’s how it went down.

It had been during a meeting, where Hamilton had talked relentlessly about some financial upgrade nobody but him cared about, and Washington had let him keep going and going, because Washington veiled his favoritism rather thinly these days. 

Maybe it was the sound of his voice, or the fact that he had been talking for an _hour_. In a _thirty-minute_ staff meeting, Alexander Hamilton was talking _an hour_ about his own bullshit.

Worse yet, he expected Thomas to approve of his bullshit plan, because apparently, it was to affect his department. On a good day, for the sake of peace and quiet, Thomas would have slapped his signature on there and called it a day, it wasn’t all that important. But Hamilton had talked _for an hour_ about something that wasn’t all that important. They would all be late for lunch break because Hamilton loved to hear his own voice.

No. Hamilton had ruined his day, it was only fair Thomas would return the favor.

So, he refused.

Hamilton threw a hissy fit.

Washington dismissed the meeting.

Jefferson was about to enjoy his sandwich in the peace and quiet of his office, when Hamilton entered like a tornado, possibly fuming. He had been childish and offensive, like he tends to be, and well on his way to offer a private revival of the show he had just performed in the meeting.

The thing was, Hamilton just never… shut up. Like, actually never. It was like the quiet personally offended him, so he just kept going and going and if he wasn’t talking, he was writing furiously. He was several weeks ahead on paperwork compared to everyone else, and he still wrote like he was running out of time, like a man who had something to prove.

And, you see, Thomas… liked the quiet, every now and again? Because he was like… A normal person and not a gremlin fueled solely by caffeine and hate?

He also would like some quiet during his lunch break, as it was Friday at the end of a tiring week, and not everyone just… worked non-stop like a certain _someone_ holding a soliloquy in his office. Jefferson doubted Hamilton even went home. He never saw him leave.

Thomas must have zoned out, and somehow during this period of time, Hamilton had restored to using Thomas’s whiteboard as a prop to draw a fucking visualization of his plan, as if the only reason why Thomas hadn’t signed it already was because Thomas didn’t get it.

Right.

Thomas had to nip this one in the bud or else he and his lunch would never ever get privacy.

In his political science class in college, there had been an interesting lecture about the confusion tactic. The essence was to throw the enemy off their game by unexpected moves. He wouldn’t exactly call himself and Hamilton enemies, but close enough.

So, Thomas waited patiently until the opportunity to make his strike. He didn’t have to wait very long.

Hamilton had made a crude remark along the lines of “turn around and bent over, I’ll show you where my shoe fits.”

Thomas had made a seductive remark along the lines of “I’d rather bent _you_ over and show you where my something else fits.”

Hamilton had _halted_ (finally) and blushed a rather remarkable shade of red (interesting) and promptly fled Thomas’ office (thank God).

Pleased with himself for getting under Hamilton’s skin, Jefferson had propped his legs up on his desk and enjoyed the last twenty minutes of his lunch break.

He had almost forgotten the whole thing by the time he got home (he hadn’t heard of Hamilton or his bullshit plan for the rest of the day), ready to settle in for an early night with a glass of red wine and a cheesy Romance novel (sue him). He had exchanged his contact lenses for glasses, his fitted suit for a tank top that barely covered a thing and flowy sweatpants grown impossibly soft from continuous wear. He had just gotten cozy on the couch with three blankets wrapped around himself, when his doorbell rang.

He groaned and then ignored it.

Whoever it was would get the message.

The ringing continued for at least five minutes.

Whoever it was, was apparently a persistent little shit.

Thomas threw the door open with a very impolite curse on his lips, which promptly died when he saw none other than Alexander Hamilton staring at his shoes, on his very doorstep.

“What the fuck,” he remarked eloquently.

Hamilton took that as an invitation to come inside.

Apparently, Hamilton had also taken Thomas’s excellent confusion tactic as flirting.

Thomas decided that he would need more wine for this, he wasn’t drunk enough to deal with Hamilton after hours.

But, as he quickly learned, this Hamilton was an entirely different force than to the opinionated bullshitter he was used to.

No, this Hamilton honest to God spluttered through every word and blushed that pretty rosy color again and couldn’t even look Thomas in the eyes, as he was apparently too affixed with Thomas’ torso basically on full display.

It had been flattering.

Even if it was Hamilton.

Or maybe, it had been flattering _because_ it was Hamilton.

He always had seemed strangely…. Untouchable.

But now, all Thomas had to do is take of his shirt and Hamilton would be putty in his hands.

It was a thrilling thought.

The decent thing to do would have been to throw Hamilton out, as hooking up clearly hadn’t been Thomas’ intention when he had flirted with Hamilton to get him to shut up.

But.

He also couldn’t deny that he had… _looked_ at Hamilton from time to time. There was a certain charm to him that was hard to deny. Thomas would be lying if Hamilton in combination with improper thoughts had never crossed his mind before.

As previously established, Thomas Jefferson wasn’t one for casual hookups. People talked and people fabricated nonsense about his flourishing love life, and he just let them be. He preferred it this way. At least nobody would try to get under his skin about the things we wasn’t willing to share. Everybody just chose what they wanted to believe about him and that was _fine_. Some of the wilder fabrications were rather amusing to him. None of them were even close to the truth, naturally.

But.

But it was Hamilton.

That settled the decision, it seemed.

He had picked up Hamilton with ease and carried him to the bedroom, before either of them changed their minds.

Judging by the way Hamilton let out a breathy sound when he wrapped his legs around Thomas’ middle, the scenario was highly unlikely.

Judging by the way Thomas’ erection brushed against Hamilton’s ass with every step he took, it was a near impossibility.

He didn’t even try to justify his eagerness to himself (although, admittedly, it had been a while since…) or try to deny that anybody who would throw themselves at him so willingly would have gotten this reaction out of him.

He knew that wasn’t the case.

Only Hamilton.

The only person who could ever get under his skin.

The only person who ever caused him to loose his cool.

The only person who could annoy and attract him in the very same breath.

Always, Hamilton.

Hamilton fucked like he debated- passionate, loud, and unpredictable.

Thomas had expected a fight for dominance all the way through, but Hamilton yielded easily, melted underneath him, arched his back and bit his lip and moaned. Reacted to ever nip, ever whisper of a touch, cock flushed and hard and _wet_ before they even fully began.

It unraveled something feral inside him, seeing the person who was annoying the shit out of him at work so… submissive and eager and soft.

Hamilton’s first orgasm shuddered through them both, as Thomas was three fingers deep buried within him and Thomas thought he looked like a fucking painting, spread out with his dark hair fanning like a halo beneath him; his glassy eyes, the parted lips, erect nipples, and come all over his stomach and Thomas’ hand.

Maybe it was that moment, he later, again, much later, mused to himself, that ruined him forever for anyone else who wasn’t Alexander Hamilton.

Something about this man was… intoxicating.

So intoxicating, that Thomas could barely delay his own orgasm as he sunk into the tight heat; drunk on the sounds falling from Hamilton’s lips, drunk on the feeling of his skin, drunk on nimble fingers scratching at his back, drunk on the smell of sex around them.

Hamilton was a fucking flame and Thomas hadn’t even smelled the smoke before he was already set ablaze with his fire.

He didn’t care.

Not when it was Hamilton.

Thomas didn’t expect this to become a thing. He expected it to be a one-nightstand among coworkers, which might make things awkward for a week, before everybody just moved on with their respective lives.

What he didn’t expect was Hamilton on his doorstep the next Friday evening, looking every inch as wrecked already as when Thomas had fucked him to completion only a week prior. Didn’t expect the vigor when he was crowded against his door the moment it closed, didn’t expect the scratch of a beard against his long neck, didn’t expect a rough, breathy voice to murmur in his ear “I thought about this all week.” Didn’t expect to react instantly to Hamilton’s violation of privacy by pulling their hips flush together and allowing the man he was supposed to despise to rut against him until he was hard and straining in his joggers.

He didn’t expect to become so addicted to this.

But he did.

Despite it being Hamilton, the notorious loudmouth from work.

Or maybe… precisely because it was Hamilton, the notorious loudmouth from work.

And look, Thomas _knew_ that, all things considered, this was a bad idea. Bad decision. Bad habit. Whatever.

But something about Alexander Hamilton looking at him with his pupils blown so wide that they almost hid the brown of his iris was enough to disarm any argument he had to the contrary.

And that’s how it became a thing.

Their arrangement is built on simple pillars: They meet every Friday. No talk about work. No kisses on the mouth. Outside of the bedroom, it’s business as usual.

And somewhere along these lines, “Hamilton” had become “Alex”. If only in the secluded space of his bedroom and his own mind.

He’s not looking forward to Fridays now, not more than usually, he tells himself.

When James remarks that he seems more chipper recently, he plays it off.

This thing between them, him and Alex, it would change nothing, Thomas tells himself every time he watches Alex get dressed and leave.

Oblivious to the fact that it had, already, changed everything.

It’s on a Friday evening like any other when Thomas Jefferson gets confronted with his denial about Alexander Hamilton’s significance in his life. And everything because of a thunderstorm. Or, more, accurately, Alexander Hamilton’s extreme aversion against thunderstorms. And Thomas Jefferson’s extremely kind heart (in his humble opinion). The proceedings leading up to the moment of realization are pleasurable, but not out of the ordinary. Only after, when Alex is getting dressed again and morphing back into “Hamilton” in Thomas’ mind, things start to go differently.

The increasing sound of rain and cracking lighting startles them both, but only one of them continues to be startled after he had identified where the sudden noises came from. Thomas doesn’t think much of it, not until he notices that it takes Alexander a notable longer time to get dressed. His movements are jerkier, not really coordinated, like he’s not focused on what he’s doing.

Another roll of thunder echoed ominously in the distance, making Hamilton twitch.

And then, Hamilton decides to change the routine.

“Do you… uh… do you mind if I stayed a little longer, waiting the storm out?”

And see, _if_ Thomas was the asshole that half the office, Hamilton included, claimed that he was, he would just throw him out anyway. He’s not a host, this is not a hotel, he has no obligation to share his bed with Hamilton, thank you very much.

The thing is, Jefferson knows that Hamilton doesn’t have a car, that he takes the subway to work every day, that there is no subway station near his house, so he knows Hamilton probably biked here. He also knows that Hamilton did not bring a jacket and that it’s raining outside.

Thomas might come off as a jerk.

But he’s not heartless.

Hamilton would be drenched the second he set foot out of his door, and if Washington caught wind that he let his golden boy catch pneumonia (let alone when he caught wind that he was fucking his golden boy through the mattress), he would probably get fired.

“Knock yourself out, but don’t hog the blankets. My bed, my rules.”

He expects a retort, but none comes. There is a flash of lightening outside of the window and Hamilton ducks his head, screws his eyes shut. Thomas pauses, assess the situation.

The other man is uncharacteristically quiet, which, quite frankly, is freaking Thomas the fuck out. He can deal with Hamilton like he knows him at the office. He’s getting pretty good with dealing Alex in his bed. But now it’s… Hamilton, but in his bed and that is…

Confusing.

Like he suddenly no longer knows how to act around him. Makes him insecure. And that… kind of pisses him off, because he shouldn’t feel insecure in his own bedroom. It’s the one space where he hides from negative emotion, and the situation feels strangely… evasive.

But he’s not gonna tell Hamilton that.

And he’s not that asshole, so he lets Hamilton stay right where he is.

Doesn’t mean he has to like it, though.

“Not a big fan of storms, I take it?”

“You could say that,” he says, picking at a loose threat on the sleeve on his awfully ill-fitting hoodie (it’s too big for him, dwarfing him almost comically). A nervous habit.

“Why?” Thomas presses on, for reasons he can’t quite explain. All he knows is that this docile, silent Alexander Hamilton is somehow worse than the loudmouth blaring his political opinions to anyone who would listen. Quiet doesn’t suit him. It is his first ever attempt at civil conversation with his coworker, aside from the few teasing remarks that always preluded their weekly encounters.

This is different.

There was absolutely no payoff here, aside from learning more about Hamilton (which… why would he want that?) and getting him to start talking again (…which, again…. _why_ would he want that?).

Sometimes, Thomas doesn’t even understand himself.

Hamilton shrugs, something sad glimmering in those fiery eyes.

“Just… bad memories. It’s silly, really. But I guess some things never quite… leave you.”

And then it hits Thomas Jefferson like a ton of bricks that he is an idiot.

Everyone at the office knows about the hurricane.

It was something people just know about Alexander Hamilton.

And maybe he is so used to Hamilton being the human embodiment of a headache that he hadn’t even considered that… that he cares about something other than being right and showing off in front of their boss. The rational part of his brain had registered, the first time the information was shared with him, that the guy probably had some issues nobody could blame him for, with having experienced severe trauma and all that- but it was just _so easy_ to forget the moment Hamilton opened his mouth to start petty arguments about financial plans.

So, maybe he had assumed that Hamilton was invincible against psychological wounds.

And it’s just awfully bad timing on his part, that his eyes fall on the patch of rugged scar tissue at the edge of Hamilton’s collarbone, winding over his shoulder to his back. He had seen them, _of course he had_ , but he had pointedly ignored them the last couple of weeks. One of them is rugged and large while the rest of them are thinner- faded, silver-white skin curling as far as his hipbones standing in stark contrast to his usual complexion.

Before he can stop himself, Thomas’s mind is filled with violent images of buildings collapsing onto a younger version of Hamilton, of a scrawny body pushed against splintering wood by the force of an unyielding torrent.

He swallows.

Alexander catches him staring and curls a blanket around his shoulders, obscuring his torso from view.

Thomas quickly averts his eyes, feeling chastised. And he’s… they’re not friends, okay? But still, Thomas feels shitty for prodding and for staring and for upsetting the guy.

Christ, maybe he _is_ that asshole, after all.

He almost wants to say that he’s sorry but reigns himself in last minute. This is still Alexander Hamilton, after all. Hamilton, who he strongly dislikes on a good day; Hamilton, who he can only tolerate when his dick is involved; Hamilton, who looks like tries to vanish as the sound of rain insistently drums against Thomas’ windowpanes.

God fucking damn it.

Because _he_ knows he is _not_ that asshole, Thomas turns on the tv to drown out some of the noises coming from outside, throws the remote at Hamilton and rushes to the kitchen to re-heat two bowls of last night’s dinner.

There’s a rerun of old Disney shows on that Hamilton insists on watching because he’s fucking twelve, and Thomas lets it slide out of the kindness of his heart.

Not that he cares what Hamilton thinks of him.

Thomas just _knows_ that he can be a nice person and he might as well proof it to Hamilton, too. He even shares his Mac and Cheese with him, and that is nothing short of a privilege.

Considering the way Hamilton very messily digs in, he’s not sure if the other is aware that he’s being privileged. Thomas likes to savor food. Hamilton looks like he’s a man starving.

The thing is, Thomas _knows_ it’s good, alright? He takes pride in his baked Mac and Cheese. It’s his grandma’s recipe, which was already amazing, but he made it even better by adding some pepper and garlic to the cheese sauce, he takes the extra time to make a crunchy top out of parmesan and panko, and add a couple of drops of lemon to give it that tang to round up the flavor palate.

It’s fatty, it’s rich, it’s comfort that you can ingest.

Still, doesn’t mean you have to _inhale_ it like Hamilton does.

“Jesus, man. Would you slow down? Have some manners.”

Hamilton pauses his indecent display of shoveling cheesy noodles into his gob. Swallows, looks at his hands. Thomas raises an eyebrow. Meek Hamilton is a new one. It’s a little disquieting. A lot of things about this version of Hamilton are.

“Sorry, I’m… really hungry. I… kind of forgot to eat today? And I forgot to buy groceries, too, there’s no food at my apartment.”

Okay. Now Thomas _really_ feels like that asshole. To be fair, Hamilton is also a bit of a minefield to navigate around, but that’s beside the point. It’s harder being nice to the guy than it is to debate with him.

That adding to the fact that Thomas is incredibly socially inept outside of his job, as he is closed-off around new people and awkward around familiar people. Sometimes, he thinks James Madison is the only person who really puts up with him. And now… Hamilton, he guesses, but that’s a bit of a stretch. They’re not even fuck buddies. More like… fuck acquaintances.

Still, something about this… different version of his work rival strikes a chord within him. Hamilton is really letting his guard down here, and it feels strangely more intimate than them having sex. Thomas has to admit he admires Hamilton right now, only a little bit, for being vulnerable in front of a person who has been nothing but snide to him for the majority of the time they spent together.

Hamilton seems… strangely trusting and a flare of protectiveness bubbles deep inside Thomas, unexpectedly and, to be quite frank, unbidden.

He knows Hamilton’s not eating enough. He never sees him eat lunch, never sees him with anything other than a large cup of coffee that is so black it basically absorbs the light. He just realizes that he has never seen him eat before this at all, which is worrying.

Not that he worries, or anything.

But it’s _objectively_ worrying.

Hamilton is very bad at taking care of himself. It’s something he would normally joke about but… now that the guy is here, in his bed, Thomas notices how tired he looks, how stressed out. There are violet circles under his eyes and he’s too pale, almost ashen. He looks like he needs someone to take care of him, to wrap him up in blankets and feed him and-

Hold on.

He doesn’t…care about the office jerk, does he?

‘No, of course not,’ he thinks, as he watches Hamilton squirming, taking comically small bites, eyes downcast.

But what he does is sliding his own bowl over to Hamilton and saying: “Eat up, I don’t want any leftovers.”

The grateful smile Hamilton shoots him is almost blinding. It does something funny to Jefferson’s insides.

The storm outside calms.

Thomas wishes he could say the same about the storm that is now raging in his mind.

They settle into their new routine quickly. Friday is still business as usual, but now with the addition that Hamilton always lingers around after. Thomas hates to admit it, but he’s good company. When they’re not arguing their heads off, they actually have… fun together. He learns that Alex is endearingly obsessed with _The Little Mermaid_ , knows Shakespeare plays by heart, is infamous for his Twitter rants, and does that little snort thing when he’s laughing (which Thomas shouldn’t be finding cute, but totally is). The banter is playful and… yeah, okay.

Maybe they’re becoming friends.

But only like, a little bit.

He blames on the fact that he starts to notice things about Hamilton during the week, too; like how he pulls his hair into a ponytail (with various degrees of sloppiness) whenever shit’s about to go down, or how he swears in Spanish so nobody would notice, or how he skips lunch on most days to write. The last part is upsetting to him, as Thomas believes in the virtue of a good meal, which is totally the only reason he drops by Hamilton’s office every other odd day to leave something to eat at his desk, usually with a sticky note containing some funny insult attached to it.

Really, he just doesn’t want Hamilton to be malnutritioned.

He’s not doing it to see Hamilton smile.

Absolutely not.

Not even a little bit. 

When he enters Hamilton’s office one day with a slice of pizza and a formidable insult consisting of a _Macbeth_ pun, the office is empty. He sets the food down at the only available space at the desk that is not cluttered with notes, documents, or books (Jesus, this guy is _messy_ ), Thomas notices all of his previous sticky notes decorating the windowsill right next to Hamilton’s desk, clearly visible from where he usually sits (or more accurately hunches, like the over-caffeinated gremlin he is).

Thomas Jefferson’s heart doesn’t stop pounding for the rest of the day, as he is unsuccessfully trying to convince himself that he’s not developing a crush on the notoriously annoying loudmouth that is Alexander Hamilton.

But nothing has changed, he keeps lying to himself. There are definitely no signs of Alex’s presence lingering in his private spaces, it’s purely coincidental that half of Thomas’ Netflix recommendations are now Disney movies that Alex likes and that there suddenly is peanut butter in his kitchen cabinet even though he doesn’t even like peanut butter (but Alex does).

But, no.

Nothing has changed between them.

They’re the same as they’ve always been.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Eliza calls, Alex learns something new about Thomas, and Thomas realizes what's been obvious to all of us.

Anyone who ever had the questionable pleasure of meeting Alexander Hamilton would tell you that the man’s defining character trait is that he has no chill whatsoever.

That he never, _ever_ slows down.

Always runs his mouth. Always.

About anything.

Doesn’t even matter.

If challenged, Alex could and _would_ hold a discussion _by himself_ about the superiority of coffee over tea for two hours (otherwise known as the _Hamilton Tea Party_ around the office).

Alex considers his eloquence and his passion as two of his finest traits. They make him an excellent employee and an even better friend (in his humble opinion).

And a professional annoyance, as Thomas Jefferson charmingly puts it (and Alex had laughed at that, the first time Thomas had said it, because there was some truth in it and it also had been pretty funny but looking at Jefferson’s self-satisfied smirk for the rest of the day made him quickly question his sense of humor.)

(And his taste in men.)

So, Alexander Hamilton is, all things considered, a pretty hot-tempered guy, who has a mind that is just on the right side of brilliant for his fiery debates to be considered intellectual opinions instead of a small guy screaming about coffee for no apparent reason.

Thomas Jefferson loves to challenge Alexander Hamilton.

And Alexander Hamilton, if he were alone with his thoughts for ten minutes, could admit that he loves getting challenged by Thomas Jefferson. Not many people in the office parallel his intellect, most of them don’t even come close, but Jefferson is a pretty good match.

They don’t agree about a single thing, but their minds work very, very similarly. It’s _fun_ debating with Jefferson, thrilling. Keeps Alex on his toes, keeps his insatiable mind satisfied.

So, it had only been a matter of time that they’d either murder each other or end up fucking, Alex reasons with himself as he snuggles deeper into Thomas Jefferson’s ridiculously expensive-looking (and also really soft) bedsheets. Thomas (because here, now, he’s always Thomas, never Jefferson) is off to the kitchen to get some snacks, and Alex feels almost disgustingly comfortable in the home of his work rival. The same work rival who also left a sizeable love bite on his left thigh, the very same work rival who mere minutes ago had fucked him right through an orgasm that had been so intense, Alex is still feeling a little bit lightheaded.

Alex blames it on post-orgasmic stupidity that the whole situation feels absolutely hysterical to him (he even chuckles to himself).

It’s Friday, the sixth Friday since their unconventional arrangement began (not that Alex is counting, shut up) and, simultaneously, the sixth Friday where Alex dutifully ignores that part of his brain screaming at him what the fuck he thinks he’s doing, having sex with goddamn Thomas Jefferson from work and _enjoying_ it.

It’s simple, he tells himself (It really isn’t).

He’s a man of simple pleasures (That is not true. He’s actually quite complicated. Especially when it comes to things concerning emotions).

He enjoys sex and Thomas is attractive and these casual hook-ups are a fun way to waste a Friday night. He’s absolutely not looking forward to them days in advance and he is also absolutely not checking Thomas out at work. Absolutely not.

That would be very much not simple.

And Alex is a man of simple pleasures (Also, Alex is a man who frequently lies to himself. Especially about things concerning Thomas Jefferson).

It doesn’t matter that it’s Thomas, he lies to himself.

It could be with anyone else, and he would be equally enjoying himself.

This is a pure coincidence. (And see, now that might be the fattest lie out of all of them. Because Alex is not stupid. He knows Jefferson did very much not flirt with him that first Friday. It was a pretty reckless decision on his part to just… take the leap of faith anyway. It had been risky and more than a little exciting, and all the way to Thomas’ house he had altered between feeling almost giddy to downright petrified, considering Jefferson could have turned out to be very much not on board and would report him for sexual harassment to HR the very next Monday. Surprisingly, the thought of explaining to Angelic Schuyler, of all people, why the fuck he thought it was a good idea to throw himself at Thomas Jefferson still hadn’t been enough to stop Alex.)

Maybe that was the moment he realized that it _mattered_ that it was Thomas and in the same second decided to deny this realization whenever it came up again.

His phone rings, saving him from the dangerous path his mind is about to take (the path it takes frequently, in the quiet when he fills out boring paperwork; the path where he doesn’t deny that it wouldn’t feel like this with anyone other than Thomas).

He checks the caller-id and brightens instantly.

It’s Eliza.

He loves talking to Eliza.

He doesn’t even come as far as the “Hell” part of “Hello”, when he’s already interrupted. “I’ve been trying to get a hold of you all day. Since when aren’t you checking your phone anymore?”

Alex falters a bit. He’s a faithful texter, usually. He always replies. But as soon as he left for Jefferson’s, he didn’t even think about checking his phone (not because he was giddy and eager or anything. Nope, not him).

“I’m… sorry. I was…. Busy. You know work… and you know.” It’s a lame excuse. It sounds lame to his own ears.

“Where are you? I’ve tried the trio’s flat, but they told me that they hadn’t seen or heard from you.”

“I promise, I’m fine.” Here, he realizes Thomas has come back and just sort of… stands in the doorway and watches him. Alex swallows, tries not to check him out too much. Sure, they just had sex, but there Thomas is always too preoccupied to notice him staring.

And… he’s staring. A lot. Who could blame him?

He follows the line of hair from Thomas’ belly button down to his waistband, lets his gaze wander over his hipbones. Thomas clears his throat and Alex’s eyes snap back up. He blushes deeply when the other gives him an entirely too smug grin. The way Thomas’ eyes sparkle makes something hot rush towards his groin.

Something about Thomas Jefferson… something about this between them… excites him, probably more than it should. Thomas is hot and the sex is great but somehow there is… more to it than just physical attraction. Something… just underneath.

“I’m with…a friend.”

Thomas’ face lights up at that before he can put his careful calculated mask of nonchalance back into place. Alex’s stomach jumps, like it does ever so often when he’s catching Jefferson being… unexpectedly soft. He tries to reason that he doesn’t care, but the reality is, he craves these moments more than he would ever admit to himself.

Thomas Jefferson with the skin around his eyes crinkling in amusement or his lips stretching into a beaming smile is really… something else. It’s a becoming look on him. Nothing of this Thomas - who is kind enough to share his food and laughs at Alex’s stupid puns, who wears big glasses because he’s too lazy to put in contacts, who shudders so prettily right before he comes - has any sort of resemblance with the asshole Jefferson, from work. It’s like they’re two separate entities.

And… if he’s being honest with himself here…

He likes this Thomas.

He likes him a lot.

“Alexander.” Eliza’s voice brings him back to reality. He blushes a little, feeling chastised. “I called your only three friends, and you weren’t with them.”

“I have more than three friends!” he huffs, and Jefferson – the fucker (pun not intended) - has the audacity to smirk. “Look, I’m sorry I wasn’t available, is everything alright?”

Eliza sighs on the other end of the line. “I wanted to ask you something concerning Angelica’s birthday present – it really wasn’t that important. I just got… nervous when nobody had heard a word from you. You know I worry, Alex-“

“I know. I’m sorry I made you worried.”

Thomas shuffles and suddenly he’s right next to him, still watching him. The crease between his eyebrows is soft, he’s relaxed but attentive. Before he can think better of it, Alex smiles at him, and places a hand on his thigh. Jefferson startles a bit at the unexpected affectionate gesture.

While their… encounters tend to be fueled by something he wouldn’t exactly call affection, these spaces before and right after are more often than not filled with a tentative attempt at being affectionate.

“But I’m good.” He talks to Eliza but his eyes catch Thomas’s. They have quite the beautiful color, when they’re not narrowed in disapproval. “Real good.”  
  


Eliza is quiet for a couple of seconds.

“Oh my God, are you with Thomas Jefferson?”

Alex almost drops the phone in surprise.

“Angelica told me about this weird sexual tension between you guys-“ Alex opens his mouth to object, but then he remembers where he is, with who, and what they just did; and closes it again.

“And about you two seemed to leave the office at the same time on Friday and- you’re totally with him, right?”

Damn the Schuyler sisters, and their snooping (he would have to make sure to steal Angelica’s yogurt out of the office fridge as a form of revenge) and their quick deduction abilities.

“Liza-“

“I have to call Angelica and-“

“This isn’t what you think it is and this stays between you two.”

He grimaces apologetically in Thomas’s direction, squeezes his thigh. They hadn’t exactly told anyone (the gossip would be ludicrous) because, really, what was there to tell? It’s just… sex? Alex isn’t quite so sure, because he had just called Jefferson a friend and meant every word of it.

There is a smile in her voice. “Who do you take me for, Alexander Hamilton? Though I am a bit wounded that you didn’t tell me. And I think you are in desperate need to make it up to me-“

Alex sighs, but can’t keep the smile tugging at his lips. “I’ll invite you to dinner, how’s that sound?”

“If you insist, Mr. Hamilton, how gentlemanly of you.”

“Bring Angelica for good measure.”

“You could bring Thomas Jefferson for good measure-“

“ _Okay_ \- that’s enough from you.”

Eliza’s laugh sounds melodic, like music. God, he loves this woman more than life itself.

“Hey? Thanks for looking out for me.”

“Always.” A beat of silence.

Then, Alex remembers something important. The orphanage.

“How are the kids?”

“They’re doing okay. They miss you, though.”

“I miss them, too. I’m sorry I’ve been away for so long.”

“It’s okay. We all know you’re a very busy man.”

“Not too busy to visit, that just won’t do. Tell them I’ll be over before the week is out.”

“That’d be really nice. Some of them have been having a tough time lately, truth be told. It’ll do them good to see you.”

“You can count on me, Eliza.”

“I know I can.”

Alex knows she’s telling the truth. Although the romance between them didn’t work out, Eliza still is the most important woman in his life. She does him good. Keeps him grounded. Content. Sane -

Then: “I want to know all the dirty details about-“

Alex barks a laugh, because only a Schuyler sister would be bold enough to make this transition. They’re all wicked and cheeky, which only adds to the list of reasons why they’re basically his favorite people to be around.

“It’s time to go, _bye_ Eliza, love you,“ And he hangs up.

Alex smiles to himself as he accepts the chocolate bar Thomas offers him. He’s not entirely convinced that it’s a coincidence that somehow, Thomas always has his favorite snacks in his kitchen. He’s halfway through his snack, Thomas is still fiddling with the wrapper of his.

“Something up?” Alex asks around a mouthful, because he knows Thomas likes this brand of chocolate, too. His hand is still on Thomas’ thigh, and he caresses it lightly, in a way that he hopes comes off as soothing and inviting Thomas to talk to him. Surprisingly, Thomas jerks away from his touch. Doesn’t look at him when he says:

“Didn’t know you had a girlfriend. Or children.”

Alex blinks owlishly at him.

“Because I… don’t?”

“Sure as hell sounded like it,” Thomas replies, too quickly. Defensively.

He can’t quite place it, but he’s itching with something that wants him to be protective. Closed-off. Maybe it’s the way Alex had called him a friend, although they only hang out Fridays after they had sex. Maybe it’s the way Alex had smiled while talking on the phone, how easily he had told the person on the other line that he loved her. Maybe it was the warm hand on his thigh. All of this makes Thomas feel… he doesn’t know. It’s like an itching, right on the palms of his hands.

They’re basically strangers.

They’re coworkers, and rivals, and fuck acquaintances (and now… friends?).

He basically doesn’t know Alex at all.

Alex basically doesn’t know him at all.

Realization dawns on Alex’s face. He laughs a little, but not in a condescending way like he can’t believe Thomas is even asking this, more in like a friendly way like he can’t believe they haven’t talked about this already.

“Oh, no…no. I’m not that kinda guy.”

“Me neither.”

“Eliza’s my ex. And best friend. She works at an orphanage. I drop by occasionally, to hang with the kids.”

Thomas looks straight at him, surprise and then something impossibly soft crossing over his face. The itching numbs, momentarily.

“That’s… really nice of you,” even his voice sounds softer. The moment feels tender between them.

Alex clears his throat, suddenly feeling emotional, remembering his youth, remembering his brother. Remembering being that lost child. It’s… a heavy thought to have half-naked in the bed of your sometimes work rival, sometimes hookup but… the moment is still tender between them and for reasons he later wouldn’t been able to recollect, he continues to speak.

“I just…I don’t want them to lose hope that their future can be as bright as anybody else’s. I know that as long as you work hard enough that you shape your own legacy. It doesn’t matter that you don’t have a mother, or a father, or a family name to rely on. They don’t need those things to be brilliant. _I_ didn’t need those things.”

He trails off, suddenly feeling like he’s said too much, like he was talking too loud, like he came off as defensive. His mouth is running off, always, and he is unapologetic about it, proud of it, even.

But he’s in Thomas Jefferson’s bed and suddenly feels more naked then when they were having sex. Sure, there was a tentative… friendship between them, but it never ventured further than pop culture and small talk.

This, however, is… private. He should be uncomfortable with someone like Jefferson knowing probably already too much about his past.

Yet. It’s Thomas who knows. And strangely, he doesn’t mind at all.

That in itself should be worrying.

But it just _isn’t_.

“And you’re brilliant. Insufferably so.”

Thomas’ deadpan remark startles a laugh out of him and he doesn’t miss the way his face is still soft and now brightens as if cheering Alex up had been the desired effect.

Alex catches himself thinking that he really, really wants to kiss Thomas right now. There is a warm feeling spreading in his chest. Alex allows it, doesn’t try to chase it, doesn’t try to understand it. He just lets it sit and consume him because it makes him happy.

Thomas makes him happy.

That in itself should be worrying.

But it just isn’t.

In the end, they agree the Schuyler sisters could know, and in return, Thomas could tell three other people if he was sure of their confidentiality (he agreed, knowing full well the only person who he wanted to tell and who actually would give a shit was James, and that thought was depressing on a whole other level.)

Luckily, he doesn’t have to dwell on his distinct lack of social life, because Alex seems to be quite animated to talk about his own. Mainly about Eliza, who Thomas remembers vaguely hearing about once or twice, back when he first started working for Washington.

Back when he and Angelica Schuyler were mere interns, fresh out of university, he had asked her out and she had slapped him across the face, and that was about as far as his relationship to the Schuyler sisters went.

Eliza sounds nice, though, and the way Alexander talks about her like she hung the moon and all the stars in the night sky makes Thomas wonder why exactly Alex isn’t dating her. He tells him as much.

Alex shrugs, stuffing his face some more. Thomas shouldn’t find this adorable (as it’s happening in his bed, upon his beloved flannel sheets, no less) but he does. Sweet baby Jesus, he does.

“We tried, but it wasn’t for us. Don’t get me wrong, Eliza’s the best. She’s the sweetest person you’ll ever meet, there’s no one quite like her. But. Maybe that was the problem. I’m… not built for sweet. I need someone to keep up with my running mind and my running mouth, someone who knows when to bite back and when to … calm the hurricane that’s always raging inside of my head.”

The ‘someone like you’ isn’t voiced, but Thomas can hear it loud and clear in the way Alex looks at him with an expression so open that he has to look away.

He clears his throat and changes the topic.

“Must be nice. To have someone in your corner like that.”

And Alex smiles, genuine and soft and something in Thomas’ stomach flips, wondering, before he can stop himself, if this tiny Caribbean goblin would ever direct such a smile his way. He refuses to acknowledge how much he wishes for it, now that he’s seen it.

Wishes for all the things they could be.

“What about you?” the man who will definitely be the death of him asks, nudging his big toe against Thomas’ calf- and God help him, his feet are fucking weird and he still finds them adorable. A crooked kind of charm. Summing up the strange appeal of Alexander Hamilton.

“Someone in your corner?”

It’s just friendly banter, he could see it in the crinkle around Alexander’s eyes, but the question hits a little too close to home. He forces himself not to look at the drawer where he puts the photograph that usually rests on his nightstand whenever Alex is coming over. He contemplates just not telling him, but something in the way Alex sits on his bed, all cozy and shit like he fucking belongs there (and for an insane moment, Thomas entertains the idea that maybe he _does_ ), eating all his favorite snacks and snuggling himself deeper into his favorite blanket.

Seeing the other man so at ease in his home, in his _bed_ …

Thomas clears his throat again.

“A long time ago. I was married.”

He knows the look on Hamilton’s face well-enough from countless debates and banters in bed that he knows he’s about to retort something- probably a little bit biting, but still good-natured, since they stopped aiming their jabs at personal problems a long time ago. Thomas knows the pattern. Whenever Hamilton senses a little tension around him, he teases him for it. It usually makes him crack a smile, and the tension would vanish.

This, though.

This is different.

He beats him to the punch, to spare them both the awkwardness.

“And now I’m a widower.”

The smile lines on Alexander’s face disappear.

“Oh, damn. What happened -“ but then he cuts himself off. Thinks better of it. “I’m sorry. It’s not my place to ask.”

Thomas doesn’t really know what to say to that, so he says nothing. Alex regards him for a moment, and then understanding flashes across his face.

“This is why we’re not kissing on the mouth, yes?”

Thomas is taken aback, mostly because Alex hasn’t known him (like _know_ known him) for that long and yet, he had immediately made the right connection.

“…yes.” Thomas takes a big breath, ready to justify himself for his feeling of loyalty for a person who had been dead for five years; and for his apparent hypocrisy that sex was on the table but kisses on the mouth were off, when Alex interrupts him.

“Okay,” he says simply and offers Thomas a smile. “Thanks for sharing.”

And just like that, it’s settled.

They watch some TV, where Alex yells at a documentary on the founding fathers for its inaccuracy, and spills snacks everywhere.

Thomas is … he doesn’t really know how to describe this feeling. He doesn’t really know what he expected, but it’s certainly not this.

He hates telling people about Martha. Their reactions are always the same, and he’s sick of it.

_Did you hear about Thomas Jefferson’s wife?_

_Poor Thomas, no wonder his smiles look so fake, no wonder he doesn’t talk to anyone. No wonder he’s so bitter all the time, what a broken man._

_Poor, broken Thomas Jefferson and his dead wife._

This, however, is an entirely different experience. Alexander Hamilton never ceases to surprise.

He nudges Alex’s shoulder when the other man takes a deep breath, preparing his next hit against the documentary as he is Alexander Hamilton, self-proclaimed history expert.

“Hey? Thanks for being so… cool about this? People aren’t usually.”

Alex throws a quick glance at him but looks away immediately when their eyes meet. Thomas is 80 percent sure he just imagined the blush rising to the other’s cheeks.

“Why wouldn’t I be? You’re still the same person you were twenty minutes ago.”

And it’s in that exact moment that Thomas Jefferson realizes that he no longer has a crush on Alexander Hamilton. Somewhere between insults on post-it notes and mind-blowing orgasms and snacks in bed he fell in love with him.

And now he can just sit there as it hits him that he fell hard and fast and he hadn’t even noticed until he was already falling.

The itching has faded, replaced instead by a weight that is sweet and heavy; that feels like the tingle of ink-stained fingertips against his skin, that sounds like a rapid fire of passionate intelligence, that smells earthy like coffee with a dash of cinnamon, that looks like a smile that is blinding.

It’s Alex.

God fucking damn it, it has been Alex for quite some time now. His heart beats erratically in his chest.

“It’s getting dark, I better go,” Alex says, oblivious to the momentous realization that has just occurred in Thomas’s mind.

‘You should stay,’ Thomas thinks but doesn’t say. “Let me drive you home,” he offers instead.

It’s not the first time, but Alex had declined every time, probably out of pride for his biking abilities. Or something.

Now Alex looks at him and gives him one of those damn crooked grins. “That would be nice.”

Thomas parks the car in front of Alexander’s apartment complex. It’s not as shabby as Thomas had feared, it’s in a nice enough neighborhood, where the houses are old, but not ancient.

The drive had been quiet and peaceful, safe for the roaring in Thomas’s ears and Alex softly humming along to the radio, smiling to himself all sweet and aloof. He looks _young_ , snuggled against the window, occasionally checking the back mirror for his bike on the bike rank. His whole demeanor is carefree, something that is so incredibly foreign on a man who is normally so tightly wound, so buzzing with energy. Foreign and enchanting.

It’s a version of Alexander Hamilton not many people get to see, and Thomas Jefferson still isn’t entirely sure how he got to be among the circle of chosen few. He had thought the spell might be broken once they left the solace of the bedroom, but now Alex just looks like he fucking belongs in his car, too.

He looks like he fucking belongs in Thomas’ _life_. And now isn’t _that_ a thought.

The car is parked and there really isn’t a good reason why Alex is still in here, other the fact that maybe both aren’t quite ready to leave each other’s company. Thomas knows he’ll be lonely at home. He usually is.

Alex looks at him like he _knows_ , and clears his throat, breaking the silence. It never lasts long when Hamilton is involved.

“You could… join me and the Schuyler sisters tomorrow. As moral support so to speak- those two can be quite vicious when they team up on you, and don’t get me started if Peggy comes along-“

‘I would love to,’ Thomas wants to say.

“I’m sorry, I have other plans,” he lies.

He doesn’t know why. Maybe because something about… everything right now is far too overwhelming.

He doesn’t miss the look of raw disappointment on Alexander’s face; a moment before the other man nods, seemingly reminding himself that this, whatever it was between them, surely wasn’t enough reason to invite him out to dinner.

Thomas feels like an idiot for lying.

He wants to go on a date with Alex.

He wants to tell Alex that he’s in love with him.

He wants to but he… can’t? Obviously, Alex just asked him out, more or less, and he had said ‘no’ because….?

Maybe he needs time to think. He probably panicked. He tends to panic.

It’s not every day you realize you’re fucking in love with Alexander Hamilton. 

And then, right before Thomas has time to review his entire existence leading up to this moment, Alex reaches over and softly caresses his beard with the back of his hand.

Thomas is pretty sure Alex can feel the heat of his skin, can hear the roaring of his heart. He keeps his eyes fixed straight ahead, because if he would look at Alex now, he was pretty sure the other would see _everything_ he’s doing his damnest to contain right now.

They’re barely friends.

It’s too soon.

It’ll _always_ be too soon.

“Thanks for the ride,” Alexander whispers with a smile in his voice, before he opens the door, unhooks his bike, and is gone. Thomas watches him vanish into the building and groans to himself.

It had been a simple thing between them, and he just had to go and make it complicated because he caught feelings.

For Alexander Hamilton, of all people.

Great.

Fantastic.

He’s absolutely fucked.

If James ever heard about this, he would be so pissed at him.

He lies awake long after he returned home. The house feels suddenly empty without Alexander’s presence. He thinks about Martha. Watches the photo that is back on its place on his bedside table, illuminated by moonlight. Wills himself back to this moment, so many years ago when Martha was _there_ and they were _happy_ and things were _easy_.

He turns and there is some chocolate wrapper crinkling beside him, which he knows Alex carelessly left there. He lies awake, trying to pinpoint the moment when Alex gained so much presence in his mind, in his heart.

He loved Martha. He still loves Martha, will always love Martha.

But now, it feels like there is more _room_ in his heart. Room for a Caribbean whirlwind who is loudmouthed, opinionated, and the most brilliant man Thomas has ever met.

Hamilton demands this room, like he keeps demanding the attention of every space he walks into. It’s impossible to ignore Alexander Hamilton, even if you tried. And Thomas had tried, in the past.

But now he craves to meet this demand, is impossibly drawn not to Hamilton with his drastic views and polarizing ideals, but to _Alex_.

And if he buries his face against the pillow where Alex had rested to catch some of his smell still lingering there, nobody would have to know.

All that matters is that when he wakes up late the next morning, he doesn’t feel as alone. He has the sweet ache accompanying him now, the reminder that old wounds eventually do heal.

Because of Alexander Hamilton.

Of all fucking people, it just _had to be_ because of Alexander Hamilton. Of course.

Thomas catches himself smiling at the thought before he can stop himself. Everything looks a lot less grim in the early morning light, after a good night’s rest.

Maybe, there were worse things than being in love with Alexander Hamilton.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here it is! 
> 
> I just love Eliza. And Pippa. How can anoyone listen to Pippa sing and not have ALL THE FEELINGS?!
> 
> Anyway.  
> You know the drill, HamFam, drop some kudos, and some bookmarks, and some comments; and stay tuned for the next chapter, in which Alex is a dick, Thomas gets a call at 3 a.m. and James is really tired of their bullshit.

**Author's Note:**

> Stay tuned for semi-regular updates, yay! This thing is around 60 pages long and I'm not even finished, so if you liked this chapter, boy you are in for a treat (or several).  
> Please please please comment and leave kudos and bookmarks. But especially comment. I love reading your comments, HamFam.


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